Flavor of Love
by WeirdMisty
Summary: The first thing he did after waking was look for coffee. The last thing he did after waking was drink coffee. onesided Godot/Mia


"She's dead." Diego Armando opened his eyes as he spoke for the first time in several years.

He had never believed in the supernatural. Even when she explained her family legacy to him, he had only half accepted the explanation. Nevertheless, when he awoke, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt and without any good reason that Mia Fey had left the land of the living.

He didn't cry. He wanted to very badly, but he didn't. A lawyer didn't cry until it was all over. After going home from the hospital, he'd nearly ended it. The razor blade trembled as he held it above his wrist, desperately telling himself to do it. If there was an afterlife, he'd be with her again. And if not, he wouldn't have to live without her. But before the blade could find its way to his skin, he dropped it, shaking his head and biting back the sob that rose up his throat. It couldn't end yet. Not until he'd avenged her. It hurt to go on, but he couldn't leave things unfinished.

Her killer was dead, he soon learned, and once again, he came very close to taking his own life. But once more, he couldn't leave things unfinished. There was another man responsible for her death. Another chance to avenge the woman he loved. And so, he carried on just a bit longer, plotting his course of action and biding his time until he could leave the world that held nothing for him.

It was for that reason that he found himself at the grocery store, days later. Moving frantically up and down the coffee aisle, searching for the right coffee. The one they had always been on her breath when she whispered sweet nothings in his hear, the one that had been on her lips when she kissed him.

He, the great connoisseur, had refused to drink it then, clinging stubbornly to his expensive gourmet roasts. But she, ever frugal, had drank it because it was inexpensive. And though he'd never had a sip, he had grown to love it, just because it was a part of her. Now that she was gone, he vowed to drink nothing but the very same cheap coffee if it would allow him to pretend, even if only for a moment, that she was with him. He needed something to remind him of her as he waited for his death.

It wasn't meant to be. Frantic demands on his part brought him to the store owner, who explained that the company that had manufactured the drink went out of business over a year ago. Though his visor didn't recognize the color red, he was certain that he was seeing it as he left, wondering how much more his poor soul could take. He had bought one of every coffee they had, hoping to find one that was the same. But this one was too rich, that one was too bitter. None of them tasted like her.

That was when he realized that if he wanted it done right, he'd have to do it himself.

Hundreds of blends later saw him to the end of his feud with Phoenix Wright. He clung to his sanity by working diligently to recreate the flavor he still remembered clearly. But none of them were right. The morning before the final day of his final case, he made one more blend, unaware that it would be his last. He didn't have time to sample it, but it didn't matter. After the trial, he could taste it. Not that it would be the right one - none of them ever were.

Immediately after the trial, he was arrested. He didn't protest as they put him in jail to await his trial. He'd entirely forgotten the untested coffee as he pleaded guilty before the judge. When he correctly anticipated the death sentence put over his head, his only response was a weary sigh. It was finally over.

It wasn't until the day of his execution that the forgotten blend was finally remembered. When asked his last wishes, thoughts of the little bag of beans, no doubt still sitting untouched on the kitchen counter, invaded his mind. _It doesn't really matter,_ he told himself,_ what it tastes like._ He couldn't imagine that it would be the right one, but if it was wrong, it wasn't as if he'd have much time to dwell on it.

He asked for one last cup of coffee.

As the steaming mug was placed before him, a tear slid down his cheek. It smelled so right. Maybe he was just hoping so hard he was deluding himself. And smelling right didn't mean it would taste right. Tan hand trembling, he brought the mug to his lips and sipped.

It was _her_. Whatever was left of the shell of a man shattered at that moment. He felt himself fall apart and he swallowed down the coffee, gulp after gulp, not caring that it scalded his throat. As he drained the cup, he cried softly for a few moments, the wiped the tears away and stood. He was ready to go.

Diego Armando died with a smile on his face.


End file.
